


the lost

by Areiton



Series: Tony Stark Bingo [11]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Age Reversal, Alternate Universe - Magic, Child Abuse, Fairy Tale Elements, Getting Together, M/M, Magical Peter Parker, Magical Realism, Poor coping habits, Protective Peter Parker, Recreational Drug Use, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 16:43:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19154992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: “Who is he?” Tony asks, once. The pill is gone, but the world is still foggy on the edges. Night is gathering and he should go home.He doesn’t. He sits near the dark haired boy and waits for answers he knows won’t come.“He cares for us,” Jamie says, finally.His hand rests between them, gleaming and robotic and Tony bites his lip to keep from touching. “He fixes us, when we’re broken.”Tony Stark Bingo: S4 I Regret Nothing





	the lost

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for child abuse and recreational drug use.

It’s bright and sunny, almost unbearably hot, in the park. 

He hates how bright it is, how the heat seeps into his long sweater and dark hair, how even though the heat is oppressive and sweat soaks him--he can’t stop shaking. 

He’s been here for three hours. He gets two more. 

Two and then Jarvis will come, fetch him home and tend him with ice packs and excuses, with Ana’s cookies and thin, apologetic smiles tinged with grief. 

He gets five hours, apologetic care from Jarvis and a week of being ignored by his father and then--it will be swept aside. Bruises heal and Starks are made of iron. 

They do not break, do not shatter, do not cry. 

He is so very tired, of being strong. 

For two more hours--he isn’t Tony Stark, only son of Howard, genius and neglected and starved for love. For two more hours--he is simply a boy, lost and lonely and unnoticed in a hot, crowded park. 

~* ~

The boy is older than him by a few years. Whip thin and pale, with a shock of hair that looks brown in shadow and burnished copper in the sunlight. He sits close, but not quite touching, and his fingers are long and gentle, when they touch along Tony’s covered wrist. “Are you ok?” he murmurs. 

Tony flicks a look at him, biting back the whine as the bruises circling his wrist flare at the gentle touch. 

Chocolate warm eyes watch him, knowing, and he bites his lip. 

He has to lie. He gets five hours and his workshop when he goes home and a month or more before Howard remembers his many failures--but only if he protects the company, the name, the reputation. 

“I fell,” he says. 

“Lie,” the boy whispers, and sorrow flicks in his gaze. “He hurts you.” 

Tony’s heart pounds, too hard, and he wants to stand, wants to run. 

The boy’s head cocks, birdlike and intent. “You don’t trust me.” 

“I don’t know you,” he scoffs. The boy smiles at that, like Tony has performed a particularly impressive trick. 

“You will,” he promises. He stands, brushes his fingers light over the bruises again and pain blooms, hot and stifling, and a jar of pills fits into his hand. Long fingers squeeze his. “Be safe, until then.” 

Tony blinks after him, but he vanishes quickly, pale arms and long legs slipping into the trees and paths and he wants to chase, wants to know who the hell he is, wants  _ answers.  _

“Young sir,” Jarvis says, and Tony stills. Closes his eyes and squeezes his little jar of pills. 

Time’s up.

~*~ 

Three months, he thinks, sluggish. It’s a good run. 

Howard had left the country for half of that, but still. Not bad. He tests his shoulder and bites back a whine, high and pained, and goes still. 

That will wait for Jarvis. 

He looks at his cracked watched. There’s blood there, and he blinks back tears. It was Mother’s, a thin delicate thing that he wore religiously because it reminded him of her. 

And now, like so much else, Howard has ruined it. Shattered it beyond repair. 

“Oh,” a voice, faintly familiar and tentatively welcomed, hums. “Oh, sweetheart.” 

Tony curls deeper into himself, and the boy shifts, close, close close, but never touching. 

“His shoulder, Pete,” a deep voice says and Pete--his name is Peter, Tony registers distantly--hums. 

There’s something wrong with his tone--cold and angry and it makes Tony shiver, shake away from him. 

“No, no, you’re fine, darling, please stay. I’m sorry.” 

Gentle again, fingers fluttering over his skin but never touching. 

Tony looks at him, slow to focus--his head aches--and Peter smiles, a smile so tinged with sorrow an apology bubbles on Tony’s lips. 

“I ran out of pills,” he says, instead. 

Tiny pills, dissolved on his tongue and made the world go foggy and his mind go sharp, made dreams sticky sweet and deep. Howard never looked at him, when the little pill fizzed on his tongue and filled up his veins. 

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Peter murmurs. He hesitates and Tony sighs. Pushes into his space, until long gentle fingers are soft on his skin. He almost sighs, almost sobs, bites it back. 

_ Starks are made of iron.  _

“I’m tired,” he whispers. 

Peter coaxes him down, until his head is pillowed on a legging clad thigh. “Sleep, sweetheart.” 

Five hours. He gets five hours. 

“Stay?” he asks, desperate as the edges of his vision blur. 

“Always.” The promise chases him down into a dreamless sun-soaked sleep. 

~*~ 

He wakes to fingers combing through his hair, and a blurry form, blocking the sun. 

For a moment, hovering between waking and dreaming, he doesn’t hurt, isn’t afraid, isn’t ashamed. He doesn’t long for touch that never comes, doesn’t reach for an empty jar of pills, doesn’t feel  _ empty. _

For a heartbeat, he lingers and there is only a blinding sort of peace, and a voice murmuring,  _ let me take you.  _

He knows that voice. And he knows there are fingers in his hair, but when he blinks awake, slips away from dreams and the space between them--he is along, curled alseep on the bench and Jarvis is approaching. He sits up, and allows Jarvis to guide him home and it’s only when he’s falling into bed, cheek tender and ribs aching, that he finds it. 

A small bottle of tiny pills. 

A smile tugs at his split lip, and he squeezes them, tight, as he drifts off. 

~*~ 

Sometimes he sits on the park bench, a pill fizzing on his tongue, his skin free of bruises, the taste of blood long faded from his mouth, and he waits. 

Sometimes, a dark haired boy with stormy cloud eyes sits hear him. 

Sometimes, a laughing blonde with dead eyes teases him from the paths. 

But the boy--the one with pale long limbs and copper hair and a sly smile--he doesn’t see him. 

~*~ 

“Who is he?” Tony asks, once. The pill is gone, but the world is still foggy on the edges. Night is gathering and he should go home. 

He doesn’t. He sits near the dark haired boy and waits for answers he knows won’t come. 

“He cares for us,” Jamie says, finally. 

His hand rests between them, gleaming and robotic and Tony bites his lip to keep from touching. “He fixes us, when we’re broken.” 

“Who is he?” Tony asks, persistent, and Jamie shakes his head, smiles, and stands to vanish into the trees. 

Tony--stupid and thoughtless and  _ curious _ \--chases him. 

He doesn’t find Jamie. But when he returns home, shivering, his skin cold and belly aching from hunger, the world too sharp and painful, when night has drawn down and the Mansion is bright with the lights of a party--he remembers. 

He remembers the dinner his father is hosting. 

He remembers he was supposed to be here. 

He doesn’t get to his pills. 

Not before Howard gets to him, and as the punches land, the sharp toe of his dress shoe driving the breath from his lungs--Tony hates him, hates himself, hates his elusive savior who can never manage to save him from this. 

~*~ 

He comes to slow. His body hurts, and there’s blood in his eyes, stinging as it drips into his mouth. His eyes won’t focus, but he can see his father’s shoes, and the expensive carpet he’s crumpled into. He bites back a whine. 

_ Stark men are made of iron.  _

He pushes himself up and almost scream--does whine--when his wrist buckles under the pressure. His fingers are swollen and shaking, and he feels, for the first time, a true bolt of fear. 

Howard would never kill him, not his only son. But cripple him? Ruin his hands and take  _ creating  _ from him. 

“No more, Anthony,” Howard says, as he stumbles to the door. “You’re too old to run from your problems.” 

Five hours and Jarvis’ apologetic care and the silent promise that it would never be spoken of. 

He closes the door behind him, and that shattered promise. 

Howard, he thinks, resigned, ruins everything. 

Shatters it beyond repair. This--this is just one of the many ruined things he’s left in his wake. 

~*~ 

There is blood in his eyes and his mouth and his ribs ache, where he touches them, and his hands are shaking, fat fingered and clumsy. 

He opens the bottle, and tiny pills scatter into his palm, on his desk, bouncing and dancing away and he would reach for them, but moving hurts. 

_ Existing _ hurts. 

He swallows the handful of tiny pills and the world fades into a fizzing hazy. 

~*~ 

“Come with me,” a familiar voice says, and there are promises in that voice. 

He knows not to trust. Knows he can’t trust Stane or his father, can’t trust Jarvis to protect him or any of his tutors to see his bruises. 

“Let me keep you,” the voice begs. 

He knows not to trust, and he whines, shaking, pulling away. 

“Pete,” a gruff voice--Jamie--says. “You’re scaring him.” 

A knife, sharp and black and shiny, fits to his palm, and he blinks at it, at Jamie and his arm that is all robotics and beauty, at the scars on his skin. “You can trust him,” he promises, softly. “And if you can’t--you can protect yourself. You won’t be hurt.” 

Peter is quiet. Waiting. Watching. 

He licks his lip and tastes a fizzing promise and rusty blood and his grip tightens. 

“Let me keep you,” Peter says, again. 

Tony nods. Once. 

It’s enough. 

~*~ 

“Drink,” Peter says. He’s holding Tony upright, all lean strength and solidity, and Tony blinks at him. 

At the gleaming flask. He takes it, and drinks, and Peter watches him, until it’s gone, all liquid starlight and burning heat coiling sweet and sticky in his belly and the world sharpens and fades and goes flat. 

Peter’s lips brush his forehead. “Come with me, little lost boy,” he coaxes and Tony follows him, faithful as a sailor chasing stars to lead him home. 

~*~ 

Peter leads him through empty streets, and he knows someone is following them, knows Jamie is keeping pace, until Peter ducks into a old empty tower. It’s broken windows, shattered brick, dirty and he thinks this is the last place Howard would ever look for him, the last place Howard would want to see him. 

He smiles and it hurts like a punch, and follows Peter in. 

~*~ 

There are voices, and long winding hallways. Laughter and shouting and the smell of sweet smoke and warm bread and it all simmers together, hot and sweet and comforting. He looks around, tries to, but Peter keeps him close, tucked to his side, and Tony is too tired, too  _ hurt _ to fight it. 

He goes where Peter takes him, the knife in his hand solid and comforting. 

~*~ 

He wakes and almost screams when he moves, pain so sharp and sudden it takes his breath away and makes his stomach rebel. 

Throwing up with a split lip and broken ribs is a special kind of agony. 

Jamie is near him, and he rolls toward the comforting bulk of him. “Pete?” he slurs and Jamie pets his hair.

There is blood in the joints of his metal fingers and rage in his eyes and his hand is too tight on Tony’s shoulder. 

“Sleep, doll. You’re safe,” Jamie promises. 

~*~ 

He sleeps and he sleeps and when he wakes, it’s to pain and tiny pills and starlight liquor, and whispers he doesn’t ever understand, indistinct and laughing. 

He sleeps and he dreams and a soft hand draws him to waking, and Peter curls close, peers at him through redgold lashes and his fingers find Tony’s, wrap around his, and the panic fades and he sleeps. 

Peter will keep him, keep him safe. 

~*~ 

When he finally wakes and pain doesn’t make his vision go grey, when the starlight fades and the fizzy fuzzy edges sharpen--Peter helps him from the little room, from the bed and it’s warmth and endless pillows. 

They step onto a metal platform, rattling adn rusty and suspended above a plunging drop, a wide convoluted pit. There are boys on the stairs that cling to the wall, circling down into the pit, boys leaning out of doorways and sitting, legs dangling into nothing. There are boys darting through the pit, shouts and laughter echoing up at them. 

Jamie is there, darting through the narrow corridors and warrens, a thin strip of red tied to his arm. 

His blonde shadow--Clint--watches, perched on one of the narrow dividing walls, a bow in hand, eyes bright and intent. 

Tony watches, his mouth open. “What is this?” he whispers. 

“Mine,” Peter says. Like that is an answers. 

Tony slides a look at him. “And who are they?” he asks, softly. 

Peter’s smile goes sharp and possessive. “Mine,” he repeats, gently. 

~*~ 

He meets them slowly. Peter lingers at his side, when he first makes his way down the winding staircase, into the pit and cataphonic noise, and the boys watch him, their eyes flicking between Tony and Peter, before they slip away, give him space. 

They don’t come close, but they  _ watch _ and Tony shivers under their intent, searching gazes, and he looks at Peter, a question in his eyes. 

Peter smiles, and feeds him, savory thick soup and bites of crusty warm bread and later, a cake so rich and sweet it makes his teeth ache but he loves it, chases the taste of it, and licks it from Peter’s finger when he wipes the smeared chocolate from Tony’s lip. 

Peter’s eyes are heavy and lazy and laughing, and utterly intoxicating. 

And if the eyes of two dozen boys follow him back up those circular stairs, if whispers dim and sutter and climb again--Tony ignores it, keeps his gaze fixed on Peter’s brilliant grin. 

~*~ 

Peter isn’t always at his side. Sometimes, he wakes and Peter is gone, and Clint sits on the metal stairs, waiting for him with a bow on his knees and a smirk on his lips. 

Those days, Clint takes him into the warren maze, and Tony stumbles after him but he quickly learns, and he darts through the maze, stealing strips of cloth from other boys and dancing back into the shadows while Clint whistles down orders. Some of them grin at him--Bruce, shy and sweet and smiling, with fury in his eyes; Loki, cruel and sharp and tricky, his gaze bright with consideration and amusement; Thor, trailing at his brother’s heels, a gentle giant with a big heart and a streak of jealousy as wide as the night sky, Natasha, in her body that doesn’t fit right, who fights with fists and sharp cutting words and smokey smiles for the right to her name--and some watch, cold eyed and angry, and he looks at Clint, questioning. 

Clint shrugs. “Peter likes you,” he says. Like that is answer. 

“He likes all of us,” Tony says, stubborn and Clint’s gaze goes cool. “Peter is  _ different _ with you,” he says, sharply, like this is something Tony knows and is dismissing, like he is  _ angry _ . 

He doesn’t explain  _ how _ and he doesn’t linger. He slings his bow across his back and vanishes into the maze, slips away to the little hidden hole where he hides with Jamie, and Tony--Tony is left, bewildered and curious, hope tingling in his chest. 

~*~ 

“Are you different with me?” he asks. 

Peter is sprawled against his chest, red brown hair tickling his nose, and the scent of woods and wind and snow--the scent of  _ Peter-- _ fill up his nose. 

He doesn’t ache. His bruises have healed and when he breathes, nothing hurts, and Peter is loose and sleepy in his arms and he thinks-- _ this is what it means, to be happy. _

“Yes,” Peter says and Tony turns that over, examines it and what it could mean. 

Peter tips his head up, peers at him, curious and strangely cautious. “Does it bother you?” 

Tony shakes his head. He wants to lean down, taste pink lips and the quick darting tongue. He stills himself and smiles. “No.” 

_ This is what it means, to be happy.  _

~*~ 

“How did he find you?” Tony asks Jamie. The pit is quiet and empty and the sound of snoring and softly rustling blankets fills the air. 

He’s never asked that. Not of any of the boys, not of Nat. He’s never asked what this place is, or where, or why Peter keeps so many damaged boys in a emptied out tower. 

But curiosity burns in his veins, with liquid starlight and fizzy drugs and Peter is absent, vanished as he so often does, and Jamie--Jamie twitches. Looks at him. His fingers, metal and flesh, curl and clench and he shrugs. “He didn’t.” 

Tony makes a noise, small and confused and Jamie smiles. Pets blonde hair spilled across his lap. “Clint did.” 

~*~ 

They are broken. 

Some--Jamie with his metal arm, Clint with his shattered hearing, Fury’s blind eye and Nat’s  _ wrong _ body--some wear their brokenness on their skin, flaunted for all to see. 

But there are others. The Odinson boys who wake screaming, Bruce with his fury and temper, the twins with their grief heavy eyes, boys who fight in the daylight and piss their beds in the night, shadow children who flinch away from touch. Two boys starve themselves, so anxious they almost reek of it when Peter sits with them and coaxes them to eat. 

“He finds broken things,” Scully says. Tony doesn’t look away from them, Peter and the half-starved boys. “He finds them and he loves them.” 

Tony knows that. 

“You aren’t special,” Snake snipes. His voice is a hiss and a taunt, his silk scarf trembling with his fury, and Tony doesn’t hit him, even though he wants to. “You’re just another broken toy he’ll forget when he finds the next one.”  

It stings because he knows it's true. He is forgotten and discarded, by everyone. Unloved by his father, left by his mother, unprotected by Jarvis. 

_ Starks are made of iron. _

Tony smiles, cruelly sharp. "If that is true, why does his fondness for me bother you so much?" 

Snake hisses and Tony grins, furious and loses himself and his churning emotions in the vicious brawl. 

~*~ 

"You antagonize them," Peter murmurs. His fingers are gentle on Tony's skin, always, and a smile, pleased, lurks in the corners of his lips. 

"They'll never love me," Tony says, dismissive.  

"Where were you?" 

Peter arches his eyebrows and snorts, soft. Shakes his head and presses a kiss to the bruise to his ribs where Snake kicked him. 

"Why won't they love you?" Peter asks. 

Tony doesn't answer. Doesn't say,  _ because you do.  _

_ ~*~ _

Peter is in their bed, and a boy is there with him. Jamie tugs, light, inexorable, on his arm, pulls him back and Tony--Tony let’s him. 

Tony allows himself to be pulled into the Pit, and into Jamie’s room, tucked between Clint and Jamie’s warm bodies, and only when he’s there, does he realize he’s shivering. 

“Do you ever think about going back?” he asks, and Jamie goes unnaturally still behind him. 

“No,” Clint says. “Not once. This--this is home.” 

“Did you love him?” he asks, because he  _ needs _ to know. 

“Yes,” they answer, together, simple truth, and it cuts, it  _ cuts.  _

“But not the way you do,” Clint says. 

“Not the way we love each other,” Jamie promises. 

He wants this. Wants love all-consuming, love that can keep the rest of the world at bay. He wants a north star guiding him home, the way Clint does for Jamie. 

He wants a hand to guide him, a voice that is always there for him to hear, the way Jamie is for Clint. 

He wants that, a longing so deep it makes him sick. 

~*~ 

“He’s broken too,” Jamie tells him. 

“Peter finds broken lost things and he gives them a home, a way to be whole and found. But no one ever asks,  _ why.”  _

Tony stares at him, a long long time, and Jamie looks back, frustration plain in his storm-cloud gaze. “He gives us what no one gave him, Tony. What he still doesn’t have.” 

~*~ 

The new boy is tall, almost taller than Peter. Tall and lanky and brilliant, with dark hair and sharp eyes and a sharper tongue, and scarred hands that shake. 

The Lost whisper. They say that Peter has a new favorite. They say Jamie and Clint have claimed Tony as their own. They say Tony doesn’t belong, that he will leave the Tower. 

Nat gets in three fights, before Tony drags her to Jamie’s bed and curls behind her, holding her still as she snarls and spits, and finally, finally, sobs. 

“Don’t leave,” she begs. He presses kisses into her long, ever changing hair, startled by her tears. 

“I won’t,” he whispers. 

“The Tower is different,” she says, later, sleep soft and night dark honest, “You’re changing us.” 

He doesn’t know what that means. 

He’s too scared to ask. 

~*~ 

Peter watches Strange, as he descends into the Pit, a smile curling at his lips, and Tony sits near his feet, waiting. Starlight liquour curls through his veins, but it burns away, when Peter’s fingers drift through his hair. When he sits next to Tony, presses into his side and sighs, tired. “I miss you,” Peter whispers, a quiet confession. 

Tony kisses his hair and says, “I’m here, sweetheart.” 

He wonders if Peter knows it’s a promise.

~*~ 

There are rules. They’re unspoken, unwritten, deeply ingrained. 

Peter finds the Lost. 

The Lost love him. 

Peter fixes them, and sometimes, sometimes, a Lost boy will leave. Venture from the Tower back into the world.

(Peter is always morose and moody, after, and the Lost skitter, cautious and wary, around him.) 

The Tower is their home, but Peter’s apartment is  _ his _ and none, not even Jamie and Clint, are welcome there. The same is true of the small workshop where Peter will retreat and  _ create _ . 

And then Tony--Tony comes to the Tower, and he sleeps in Peter’s bed, spreads across his rooms like they are  _ his _ . 

And Peter smiles, pleased. 

The Lost resent him and his place in Peter’s affections. 

But when Tony emerges from the workshop, sweaty and grease stained--Tony shatters the rules.

And they  _ hate _ him for that. 

~*~ 

Strange is a quiet, angry boy who doesn’t fit quite right with the Lost. His eyes chase after Peter when he laughs, when Pete sits in the Pit, fruit juice sticky on his lips and his eyes bright and starlight liquor pours like water. 

“He’s like magic,” Strange whispers and Tony watches him, watches the way his gaze is avid and bright and  _ hungry _ . 

He watches too, the way Peter is smiling and happy and distant. The Lost don’t touch him. Even when they press close, there’s a distance. Like he is untouchable. It fades most when Jamie bullies him into eating, when Clint teases him into the maze--but even they watch him with something like awe and reverence in their eyes. 

He is magic--Tony knows. He’s magic and he’s  _ good _ and he’s unspeakably beautiful--and Tony thinks he may be the most broken, lost boy he’s ever seen. 

~*~ 

“What’s Peter’s story?” he asks, once. 

Just once. 

Jamie looks at him, and he remembers, suddenly, how he was afraid of Jamie, in that park so long ago. 

How he looked like death incarnate, standing next to Peter--all of that fury and danger leashed by Peter’s smile. 

“It’s his story,” Jamie says, simply. 

~*~ 

He thinks about asking. 

He  _ wants _ to ask. But sometimes--sometimes, Peter will smile at him, and press close in their big bed, and he’ll murmur, “Tell me something happy.” 

It’s a request. Peter, who gives and gives and gives--and never requests anything. He  _ asks _ Tony for happy stories, and Tony--Tony draws him close, presses his lips to Peter’s red-gold hair and tells him every fairy tale Ana ever gave him, tells him about the bots he built in his workshop, about flying and snowfalls and Jarvis’ warm hugs and Peter says, softly, “You loved them.” 

He nods, because there’s no point in lying. 

“Why did you come with me?” 

It’s a choice. It’s always a choice. 

_ Let me keep you, _ Peter whispers, coaxes, begs. 

_ Stark men are made of iron _ . 

“Because I love you more,” Tony says, like it’s simple. 

Maybe it is. 

~*~ 

Peter kisses him, and it’s bright, sharp and clear, and intoxicating, like starlight spun into bottles and gleaming on the little shelves. 

Peter presses him into the blankets, and he’s warm, warm as sunlight on that hot day in the park. He crawls over Tony, eager and clumsy and beautiful, all pale lean lovely, and Tony gasps, rocks into the unsteady thrust of his hips, licks into that hungry mouth, grips hard and tight on hips that writhe above him. 

“Stay with me,” Peter whispers, a moment before he takes Tony’s cock in his mouth. “Please, please, please.” 

There’s a world of lost and longing in his voice. 

Tony loses track of his longing, of the thick tears, loses track of everything but the warm wet heat and Peter’s fingers on his hips, of the blinding pleasure and the way Peter curls, soft and sweet and needy, against his side. 

He remembers, on the very edge of sleep, when Peter whispers it like a secret against his skin, “Stay with me.” 

_ Let me keep you. _

~*~ 

Sometimes--not often, but sometimes--they fall into bed together and Tony rolls his head back, let’s Peter lick across his throat and nip bruises into his skin, fingers him open with a wicked smile and fucks him with an almost brutal gentleness. 

He kisses Tony, after, soft and warm, and when they’re curled together, the endless loneliness in his eyes almost vanishes. 

~*~ 

Jamie’s eyes are bright, when Tony clatters down the stairs with fresh love bites and a loose grin, Peter’s fingers tangled in his. Clint laughs, bright and open and smacks a kiss to Jamie’s cheek and drags them all into the Pit. 

They’ve never played together. Peter rarely plays, more content to perch high and call lazy suggestions. 

Now, though--now he drags Tony into a filthy kiss, and then spins away, scrambles up the wall and perches near Clint for a split second, before Natasha whistles, high and sharp--

Peter vanishes, bounding across the tops of the narrow walls, and Tony--Tony chases after, heedless of Jamie and Clint, of Nat and her sharp, stealing fingers. He chases Peter, deep into the endless, ever changing maze, because he can’t imagine a life where he didn’t chase Peter. 

~*~ 

Sometimes, he knows. He remembers a cold cold father, a mother’s watch shattered, sad blue eyes and gentle hands that never protected him. 

He shoves those memories aside and chases Peter. 

~*~ 

The shouts of the Lost and Clint’s sharp whistle, the pad of Jamie’s feet--it all recedes, vanishes as he follows Peter, until all he can hear is the pounding in his veins and Peter’s light light feet and--

He grunts as Snake slams into him. 

Stumbles back a step and Snake  _ follows _ him, shoves him into a wall, shoves the knife  _ deeper _ , twists it and Tony’s scream is trapped against a sweaty dirty palm, and the shouts of the Lost, coming closer. 

He falls and he can feel himself being drug, deeper, deeper, into the maze, into the Pit, and all he can see is the empty space of the Tower, spiraling high above him, and pinpricks of light, curling into the darkness. 

~*~ 

He’s in Peter’s bed, when he wakes. It smells warm and familiar, musky like his boy, scratchy and rough and he thinks for a moment that it should be silk and satin, Egyptian cotton and warm clean linen. 

Jamie shifts next to him and he blinks, the thought vanishing. “Where is he?” he asks. 

“C’mon, you gotta rest,” Jamie murmurs, and presses him back into the sheets when Tony thrashes, a gentle, grounding pressure. 

“ _ Where?”  _

Jamie sighs. “He’s not here, Tony. He and Clint--they left.” 

There’s a spark of fear in his gut, and then Jamie’s shushing him, just a little, metal hand petting over unruly hair. “He’s comin’ back. You know he is. Pete’d never leave you.” 

“Where did he go?” Tony asks, and Jamie’s gaze softens. 

“You need to know why Pete built the Tower, Tony.” 

~*~ 

He had a family. 

Once. 

A mother, a father. An aunt and uncle, friends. 

People he loved. 

They died. One by one, while he could do nothing to stop it--they died. They left him. His mother and father first, an accident that killed them both. His uncle next, murdered in the street waiting for Peter. He found him there, bleeding in the streets. 

His aunt died next, washed away in grief and pills, and his friends--

“They left him,” Jamie whispers. “They chose to leave him.” 

“He built this place after--and he’s been gathering the Lost since,” Jamie says. 

“And we leave him,” Tony whispers. “Each of us.” 

We come to him broken and he makes us whole--and we  _ leave him.  _

Jamie looks at him, “We’re all broken, in so many ways--but when the Lost leave--they break Peter a little bit more.” 

~*~ 

“Would you leave?” Tony asks, while they wait. Starlight liquor is being passed below, the Lost laughing and anxious and eager. 

“No,” Jamie says. “I haven’t for seventy years--I never will.” 

Peter steps into the Tower, and he’s bloody and beautiful and there is something savage in his eyes as he tips his head back, back and back and back, to find Tony on the stairs. 

There is blood on his boots and his hands and a familiar silk scarf around his throat, and a vicious smile on his lips. 

“Would you?” Jamie asks, softly. 

Tony doesn’t answer him. 

~*~ 

Peter tastes of starlight and fire, and he leaves, sometimes, brings boys back to the tower who are bruised and shattered and broken, lost boys, boys the world forgot. 

They leave, sometimes. 

When they have been patched together, their broken pieces bound up, love and family making them whole. 

Three boys--three never leave him. 

A boy with storm cloud eyes and a metal arm and a murderous smile. 

A boy with golden blonde hair and a wild grin and deadly aim. 

And a boy who fills his bed, whose quick tongue and bright laugh never falter. A boy with chocolate brown eyes that are sad, a mind that is quick and nimble, and kisses sweet as sugar. 

He’s broken--they’re all broken--but Peter curls into his boy, in their big bed at the top of a tower, let’s Tony wrap around him, strong as iron, and sometimes--

Sometimes, he thinks they are whole.  


End file.
